


It's A Symphony

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Codependency, Gen, Gore, M/M, Murder, Violence, dark!Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:00:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been doing this for a while, Hannibal and Will. They take who they want, when they want. But, this time, Will needs to do it himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Symphony

There's blood on the walls, blood on the carpet, blood on his hands. Will looks down at his fingers, flexes them, watches as the liquid glides down his skin, painting what was once white a brilliant red. With his hands still held before him, Will looks through the spaces between his fingers. Hannibal's crouched down on the floor, his broad silhouette moving gracefully as he pulls the knife from their latest victim.

Will feels sick.

Hannibal half turns, the loose dirt on the bottom of his shoes scraping against the hardwood floor. “He's still breathing.”

Will's heart quickens. He can feel Hannibal's gaze burning into him, beckoning him. He moves slowly, his boots scuffling along the floor. Sitting on his haunches, Will's shoulder brushes Hannibal's. The touch, though discrete, sends shivers up the back of Will's neck. He stares down at the man on the ground, whose hands are trembling the way all hands do when the body they're attached to has lost too much blood. He'll slip into shock soon if they don't kill him first. He'll die on his own. Will hates when that happens. Without thought, he moves his hand closer to the victim. His fingers hover only inches away from the man's face. The heat of his skin touches Will's fingertips, warms him. He shivers again.

Hannibal's leather clad hand soon covers Will's own, warning him silently to not touch. Will knows not to, not when he's not wearing his gloves, which he never does. The flesh is always off limits to him, too dangerous to dare; too stupid to think about. But, the clothes—oh, the _clothes_! He's allowed to touch those. Prints are never lifted from cloth, and blood always stains cotton so well. It seeps into the fabric, coloring the skin beneath. Small designs spread across the man's clothed chest. Some spots look like flowers to Will, blossoming in the radiant summer sun.

From the corner of his eye, Will's able to see Hannibal's right hand—the one holding the blade—lift and freeze just above the man's stomach. It's a gesture of trust, really, and Will loves it when Hannibal allows him control. He places his hand over Hannibal's, and squeezing gently, guides the blade as if it's his own fingers gripping the handle. First, he slides the sharp tip along the jaw, down the neck. He plays with the jugular, knowing exactly where it lies. There's a heartbeat below the skin, below the tip of his weapon. It's weak and fragile, though it echoes maddeningly in Will's ears. It reminds him of what he's doing, and how far he's come.

He wasn't always this way.

There was once a time in Will Graham's life when all he did was merely exist. He was a saddened, overwhelmed soul that wandered just as most people do: lost, confused. His only difference was, on more than one occasion, he'd find himself dreaming up ways to murder those around him. It's true that everyone thinks of killing someone, but the way Will thought of it, the way his body would vibrate when his imagination would spill blood, bone, cartilage, he knew it wasn't an average thought. He was special. That's how Dr. Lecter had put it. A special mind in a mundane world.

Will continues to guide Hannibal's hand, moving past the collarbones, over the breastplate. He stops just short of the man's heart, and that is where he leaves Hannibal's hand, bringing his own back into his lap where he clasps his fingers together tightly, his eyes never leaving the man's face.

Ragged breathing fills the space around them as Hannibal pushes the blade in. It takes a while for Will to realize it's his own breath coming out in jagged gasps. He feels a burst of coldness spread inside him, starting in his gut and rising to his chest. He inhales sharply. Quickly, as if scared, Will's hand latches onto Hannibal's wrist, his nails digging into the small patch of skin visible between the cuff of his sleeve and his glove. He pretends to not notice the way Hannibal's fingers twitch.

The knife sinks in to the hilt, buried deep in the carnage, piercing through the heart chambers. Waiting only a moment, Hannibal tears the blade from the body, taking with it the life held within. And it's only then that Will can relax and breathe steadily.

*

The landscape passes by like a projection. Will watches with his head laid back against the seat, the rumble of the highway below him. There's condensation on the window glass, falling in patterns and breaking away as the wind roars past. He watches the droplets form, fall. He thinks of the blood. Beyond the rain, he sees the flat planes of their surroundings; the dirt, the grass. Trees, wet and dying as winter comes, sway rhythmically. Will likes to think of the landscapes as reality. Far off and untouchable, yet just as real as himself and the car he sits in. But, even though the dirt clings to his shoes and jeans, and the scent of grass and mud fills his head, Will never feels he's really touching the earth. He may see it, and he may smell it, but never has he felt as if he's connected with it. He wonders what others see when they look out their windows. He can't imagine they see the same thing.

The sky, now blackened and cloudy, never looks alive. What Will sees is a vast swarm of nothingness hanging over him, breathing down his neck. It tells him he's small and insignificant. It says, _you are nothing_. The hills and the lakes, they remind him of photographs, not solid surroundings that he may enjoy. The world to Will Graham is but a giant museum where things are kept for their beauty, and even though you may be unable to find the true meaning within it, you know that it must mean _something_. Why else would it be on display? It sits perched before you, confined behind glass. You are allowed to look, but never touch, never _feel_. Never connect. Will looks to his hands again, and finds the deep stains on his skin left by the blood. It sparks a fire in his brain, and he knows he feels the connection. When the life spills from their victim's eyes and they're no longer looking with fear, something happens. It's almost as if Will can feel their energy, their spirits, clashing with his own. It's true beauty.

He turns to Hannibal and whispers, “I want to do the next one.”

Hannibal says nothing, but Will can see the faint upturn of his lips as he smiles.

*

“These are for you.”

Will's seated in one of Hannibal's office chairs. He's usually not allowed here anymore, not since their appointments have stopped. But today is special.

Will has decided that _special_ is his favorite word.

He looks to Hannibal who lays a pair of leather gloves on the arm rest. They resemble Hannibal's down to the stitching. He wonders if they're the same pair, only in a different size. They're an improvement over the basic wool gloves Will wore during the start of it all. He takes the new gloves cautiously, glancing towards the other man. He smiles.

“Is this some kind of initiation?” he jokes, slipping a hand into one tight glove.

Hannibal tilts his head minutely. “Not at all.”

“Come on, it's like we have a uniform or something. Right? Leather gloves. Soon we'll be wearing leather jackets. It'll be our trademark.”

“No trademarks.”  
  
Will sighs. “Yeah, it's a, uh. It's a joke.” He wiggles his fingers, more excited than he thought he'd be. He puts on the second glove.

“I wasn't aware that you found this all so humorous,” Hannibal smirks.

“Yeah, well, don't you?”  
  
“The Will Graham I knew just four months ago never joked.”

“It started about the same time you stopped psychoanalyzing me.”

“That's something that's never stopped, Will.” He heads to his desk and sits down, pulling out his appointment book. Will glares halfheartedly in his direction, but turns away when Hannibal looks up.

With his hands covered, he feels free. He squeezes them into fists and revels in the sound of the leather, new and stiff, moving with his joints. It feels strange, as if he's cloaked and shielded from danger. It's a funny thought, he tells himself. He is the one to be feared, yet fear is all he ever feels.

He keeps the gloves on for a majority of the day, constantly balling his fists up, attempting to break the leather in before he has to put it to good use. That night, as he falls asleep with Hannibal's arm wrapped protectively around his middle, he imagines what it feels like to strangle someone.

*

A two story house, blue with a bright white front door, stands before them. They're in the front yard, Hannibal two steps behind Will, letting him lead the way. The grass is freshly cut, Will can smell it in the air. It's sickeningly sweet.

“What way are we going in?” he asks, voice a faint whisper.

“That is up to you.”  
  
Will's stomach somersaults. He looks to the front door, to the windows, to the roof. A small tap comes at his side, and when he looks down at the intrusion, he finds Hannibal's knife offered to him. He can't help but stare blankly at the weapon. He's never got to use it himself, it's always been Hannibal's and Hannibal's alone. It's another long minute before Will finally takes the handle between his fingers and palm, holding it tightly. Tremors wrack his body, his limbs becoming light. He feels faint.

“You'll do fine,” Hannibal says, placing a hand on Will's shoulder. He brushes the back of his index finger along Will's jaw, comforting him in the smallest of ways.

Will takes a timid step forward, feeling Hannibal shift behind him. He stares at the floor-to-ceiling windows that border the front door. Quietly, he says, “Get the glass cutter.”

*

Once inside, Will finds himself slipping into a state of relaxation. He's no longer shaking, and his grip on the knife loosens. No need to hold it so closely, not yet.

“Whose house is this?” he asks as Hannibal checks both the living room and the kitchen.

“Belongs to a man by the name of Chester Parsons.”

“Family?”  
  
“I wouldn't give you a full family on your first night.”

“One man in a big house like this?” Will scoffs gently.

Hannibal hooks a finger under his chin, tilting Will's head back roughly. “If you must know, she and the children are away at her parents' house. In Chicago.”

“How do you know that?”  
  
“Don't ask questions you already know the answers to.”  
  
Will swallows hard, a spike of fear nestling in his spine. He drops Hannibal's gaze and feels color rise in his cheeks. Hannibal leans in just enough for his breath to ghost along Will's cheek.

“Don't dwell on it. You're here for something. Now, go get it.”

 _A life_ , Will thinks as he climbs the stairs. _You're here for a life_.

The floorboards don't creak as they walk along them. There are no family pets to warn their masters of intruders and no alarm system to keep anyone at bay. Will can't tell if it's due to stupidity, or if Chester Parsons has too high expectations of humanity.

Avoiding the children's rooms, Will walks down the long hallway. The walls are covered in family photos. Ones from Christmas where all four members of the Parsons family wear matching sweaters. Another from a trip to the beach. A wedding photo, a picnic, a day at the park. Will feels nothing towards these faceless people. The only reality he feels is that of Hannibal's looming shadow on the walls.

The bedroom door is shut. Will's learned to never open the doors. The hinges creak, always stirring the person hidden inside. He looks to Hannibal, Hannibal looks to him, unmoving. This is Will's time, it's all on him.

Thinking carefully, he eyes the hallway. There's a small table holding potted plants, their vines and flowers growing over the sides. _They need to be trimmed_ , he thinks vaguely as he touches the tip of the knife to one of the pots. Using the blade, he knocks the pot down, unnerved by the shatter it makes. Hannibal slips into the shadows, hiding from sight. Will presses his back to the wall, holding his breath. He feels a door behind him, the knob jammed into his back. He turns it quietly, falling back into the room behind it. He finds himself in a bathroom where trinkets line the sink. A hairdryer, a bottle of hand soap. He waits.

The house is unearthly quiet, able to give away each sound made. Chester Parsons wakes with a loud shout, his foot falls thundering as he runs to the bedroom door, throwing it open. Will doesn't move, doesn't breathe. He's behind the bathroom door, watching through the space between door and wall as Mr. Parsons flies down the hall, unaware of lingering eyes. The knife in Will's hand is a soothing weight. He wonders where Hannibal is hiding.

“What in the hell?” Chester says loudly, bending over the broken pot and touching the glass.

Will curses inwardly. He shouldn't have done that. The glass is a weapon, the plant is a weapon. Everything can be used against him, and Hannibal didn't tell him no. Will's failed before he even stared, but there's no turning back now. He can't wait for Chester to move, the man could have a gun, could grab a knife from the kitchen without Will knowing. No. He can't wait.

Inhaling deeply, Will counts to five.

 _One_...

He takes a step away from the door.

 _Two_...

Chester has still not moved, but instead is piling the glass up and moving the dirt.

 _Three_...

Will reaches for a small, glass jewelry box by the sink.

 _Four_...

He gets his knife ready.

 _Five_...

Pouncing from the doorway, Will brings the glass box down on the top of Chester's head with a loud _thud!_ The man cries out, both with confusion and fear. His hands instinctively reach for his skull where the jewelry box has broken skin. There's hair and blood marking the place where it made contact. It's beautiful.

Will moves quickly, dropping the box and reaching with one gloved hand for Chester's shoulder. With a firm grip he shoves the knife deep within his spine, hooking it between the cartilage and bone. Chester cries louder, hands flailing through the air as he tries aimlessly to grab his assailant. Will's wrist jams up and down.... _up_ and _down_ , making the bone crackle. He watches the muscles in his victim's back flex, quiver. Taking his free hand, he slips it around Chester Parsons's head, muffling his calls for help. It's the perfect stance for a broke neck. Just a twist to the right and the rest is history.

It's too easy, too clean.

Will pulls the blade free, throws Chester onto his battered back. Straddling him, Will uses his thighs to keep the body from moving. The eyes he looks into are drowning in fear. They're a bright blue with a gold rim in the center, much like Will's own. He finds reflection in the face beneath him. He finds himself.

He doesn't like it.

Raising his hands, with the knife between them, he plunges it into the man's stomach. Chester's staring up at him, mouthing the word, _stop_. It's the one syllable Will hates the most. He pushes the blade deeper. There's blood draining from the open wound to the spine, and it puddles around them, sinking into the hardwood, leaving its mark. Will's mark. He stares for a moment too long, lost in his own head and doesn't notice when Chester's hand wraps around a shard of glass. In one instant, using his eyes, Will's drawing designs in the deep crimson around them, and in another, he feels a shock of pain in his left shoulder. He shouts, hands falling from the handle of the knife and reaching for the jagged piece of glass protruding from his body.

There isn't enough time for Will to feel fear nor worry, for Hannibal acts then, moving quickly and quietly. His eyes are narrowed down, sending sparks of triumph through Will's body. Ignoring the glass in Will's shoulder, Hannibal takes both of Chester's wrists, twists them, breaks them. Chester cries out again, but it's futile.

Forgetting the knife buried in the body, Will takes his leather covered hands and wraps his fingers around Chester's neck. He finds the windpipe with his thumbs and adds pressure, feels the air trapped inside. Chills crawl up his sides as Chester Parsons eyes bulge from their sockets. They're red rimmed, tired. _It's okay_ , Will thinks. _You'll be able to sleep soon_.

Hannibal steps around the glass, around the body, and crouches down next to the two of them. He has a hand on Will's shoulder, silently coaxing him to squeeze harder. Will does, and feels the muscles spasm in his hands. The bones collapse in on themselves, breaking uselessly. Chester Parsons's heart stops beating.

It's not until Hannibal takes the knife from the body that Will realizes there are tears in his eyes, trailing down his face. The cold air of the A/C brushes his cheeks, drying the tears in place. He begins to cry, softly at first and then louder, deeper. His chest heaves.

Hannibal's a constant weight at his side, his forehead resting to Will's temple. He stays quiet, though the feel of his hand rubbing small circles into Will's back is enough to stop the overabundance of emotions that bombard Will's thoughts. His breathing returns to normal, and before he can stop himself, his faint sobbing tappers off into laughter. He feels as if his face is split in two by how wide he's smiling. He wonders if Hannibal can see each and every one of his teeth—molars included. When was the last time he laughed this way?

He doesn't think he ever has. Not so joyously, so genuinely. He laughs at himself, at the glass in his shoulder. He laughs at the body beneath him, and the blood on the floor. He feels his chest swell as fresh tears fall from his eyes. He thinks of Hannibal, wonders if he cried the first time he killed. Will doubts it.

“What do you see?” Hannibal whispers, breaking the silence.

Will stares down at the lifeless face that seems to stare back. It's a long while before he responds.

“Freedom,” his voice is hoarse. “I see freedom.”

*

The drive back is much like any other. Silence in the car, body in the trunk. Will watches the scenery, eyes the horizon. The sun will be rising soon, bringing with it a new day, but Will won't see it, won't feel it—not really. The landscape looks farther away than he can ever remember it being. It looks like a painting: abstract and unreal. The trees sway as they always do, but he does not hear the sounds they make, does not feel the wind they feel. They're just so far away, too far to touch. He wouldn't reach for them even if he wanted to.

Turning his head, he touches the crook of Hannibal's elbow. He doesn't have to ask for Hannibal's hand, it's already being offered. Linking his fingers through the spaces between Hannibal's, Will grasps him tightly. His eyes fall shut, and he finds solace in the sounds around him. The constant emptiness of the world he no longer finds beautiful. He doesn't need it anymore. He has beauty within his own hands, within his own heart. His own personal brand of it. And it's just as he's always wanted it to be.


End file.
